I sit here watching you chase ghosts
down the rickety hallway,
half a cup of beer chasing half a cup of rum
as a twenty dollar bill races a phantom high
down three powdery white lines.
You talk to everyone,
but no one has much to say
and the conversation died
before the third round of shots.
But you don’t stop to see
what’s sitting past the end of your nose.
You’re still running the rat race,
chasing shadows in this ghost town.
Goodnight, Pittsburgh,
it’s time to go home
as the moon is shining in the sky.
We race to be the coolest prick,
the dopest trick,
the deckest shit,
the hippest lie,
and chase the perfect orgasm that never comes
and chase the final, filling high
and chase the deadbeat, wasting ghosts
until we lose the rope
and die.
